


A Part of Your World-the door

by SprainedMyAnkleFlippingtheFirewall



Series: A Part of Your World (the Magnus Archives AU) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical The Spiral Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Vast Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Web Content (The Magnus Archives), I split this work into multiple parts bcs I can have more fun w tags that way, Mind Control, Multi, Original Spiral Avatar - Freeform, Other, betaed but we still dead, but I decided to add realism for some reason and now I hate myself, content warning at beginning of each chapter, focused on friendship, liberal interpretation of relationships very much welcome, originally a lighthearted AU about avatars with cool powers hanging out, self-care is writing your fav characters interacting with your oc, tags in order of character appearance, the protag is horny for everyone, vandalism of lietners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28768320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SprainedMyAnkleFlippingtheFirewall/pseuds/SprainedMyAnkleFlippingtheFirewall
Summary: It had seemed like a simple decision, really. Follow that which sings to you; follow it, become it, feed it, and in turn, let it become you. And if this pursuit meant becoming an avatar of some eldritch fear god, so be it. Besides, what did it mean to be a 'monster' anyway? What did it mean to be human in the first place? Wasn’t following your heart all there was to it? And if you get the bonus of hanging out with a bunch of awesome people with cool powers, whyever not?[1] the doorShould she thank him, the old man who had tried to throw her off a glass platform, and led her into this world?What about him/it? The Distortion who claimed that she was a thief, yet had allowed her to steal more than she'd ever wanted to know?Or her? The Mother/Puppet who had initiated their meeting with a threat and ended it on a promise?The exchange of Stories, Words and Lies would open Door after Door. And the Little Thief knew that it did not matter whether she had a choice or whether the plot had been set from the beginning. She had heard the song, clear and undeniable, and she knew she wanted to be a part of it.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane & Original Character(s), Michael Distortion & Original Character(s)
Series: A Part of Your World (the Magnus Archives AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124258
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. Enjoy Sky Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this work is from the perspective of a self-insert character. When the idea first came it was just a couple fun fight scene with a wish fulfillment Spiral oc, but that was not satisfying enough that I would be motivated to actually write it. So I put thought into it and slowly grew the idea until the plot and themes were juicy enough for me to actually want to sit down and complete it, and this is the final product (well, part 1 of it). 
> 
> Part 1 will detail the protag's path to becoming an avatar, and how her sensitivity & love for storytelling plays into how she engages with the entities. These aspects are ultimately from my own exprience, but like when any author writes an mc based on themselves, I tried my best to design the oc as a full character who plays off the entire world building, and hope that as the series progresses she will grow to be likeable/ relatable even to readers who do not share her specific traits.
> 
> I did try to keep all canon characters in their original personalities, though I can't say how successful it was xD.
> 
> Finally, (forgive me for putting so much into the notes part), I know that this kind of fic is probably not what most people are looking for when they come to the tma tag, but I hope that if you feel interested in the idea that you can give it a chance. I enjoy discussing tma world building/avatar stuff in general and would love to hear your thoughts if you want to comment on anything.  
> Enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An account of 1) Simon's idea of a nice morning walk and 2) the protag's brief interaction with an antiques dealer and an attractive goth who apparently has a strange relationship with books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Vast & vertigo related imagery

A lot of weird things have happened in Ryan’s childhood, but it was really that one time with the old man nearly yeeting her off the side of a mountain that did it. 

Sure, it’s unsettling to see the occasional distorted face in the mirrors, or feel that something that appeared completely normal was dangerous in some way, but really, nothing beats looking directly into the eyes of someone who was, beyond a doubt, not human, and who seemed to be absolutely delighted about this fact (oh yes, and being potentially thrown off a mountain, of course). 

The other stuff she had chalked up to coincidence or hallucinations, but meeting Simon Fairchild is not something that can be willed away quite as easily. The search for whatever explanation was out there was flung into action on that day, and had eventually led her here, outside the door of an obscure antique shop. The back alleyway that led to it looked as if she was just as likely to get murdered as to walk away with anything of value. Yep, just one of those places around the city. 

Ryan could still remember every detail of that day. She had chosen the single platform that was overlooked by the crowds of tourists who visited the place. Being highly attuned to the ‘presence’ that other people carried when they entered her space had its merits, but it had ultimately primed her to favor solitude. 

The sky was soft that morning. A light blue with wisps of cloud far into the distance, scattered by a strong wind before they could properly gather. It hadn’t occurred to her then, but looking back, how strange it had been for that particular part of Europe that a sky should be so....empty, at this hour of the day. 

The platform itself was nothing special, a random shard of glass jutting out the backside of the mountain where people could stop and take pictures, going roughly thirty meters out and situated five hundred meters above ground. That morning it was almost devoid of consciousnesses. There were a few birds perched at the farthest end, there was Ryan, and two other tourists (both middle aged men) and of course, there was Simon. 

He was dressed in a large gray overcoat and carried a walking stick that seemed more for aesthetics than any practical use. It wasn’t a particularly unusual getup, but the moment she laid eyes on him, she knew something was wrong. There was a spring in his step, an aura of pure energy conveyed by the body language as he stepped onto the platform and walked at once to stand at its edge, leaning up against the glass barrier. Even when his body was still she could feel it coming from him. He was never still, not truly. There was a ‘direction’ about him, a movement that reached forever upwards and outwards as he stood there gazing into the vast expanse of sky. 

But this feeling of “wrongness” was not simply that this man seemed to have a manic surge of energy not at all common for his age (or people, in general). There was a faint prickling sensation in the back of Ryan’s mind as she looked at him, and it told her that _something was going to happen_. Not necessarily ‘good’ or ‘bad’, but certainly more dramatic than the quiet aura that the morning had so far been.

_He’s dangerous_ . She thought, followed by an immediate double take at the thought. _What, like, seriously? This old man?_

Trying to look not at all like a suspicious person herself, she walked over to the center of the platform, closer to where he stood at its edge, and studied him, pretending all the while to gaze up at the almost nonexistent clouds. Yep. The feeling was there alright. 

Now that it had been confirmed, Ryan found herself in a rather awkward position. It was certainly there, but it wasn’t enough to make her actually leave. There was a sense, however stupid, that if she left because of this feeling, she would be giving it too much legitimacy over the act of enjoying this nice morning walk, which is what she came here for, and that felt like...a wrong kind of priority to have. 

Looking back, staying had indeed been the better choice (however dangerous it was, Ryan would be pissed at the thought that Simon Fairchild had robbed her of a “nice early morning walk” with his mere presence), but she certainly had her regrets when, five minutes later, she was utterly confused about whatever the hell was going on while trying her best to stop the strange old man from throwing one of the other tourists over the edge of the platform. 

It wasn’t even that violent, not really. He had simply turned and beckoned to where the three of them (the two middle aged men and now Ryan too) stood at the middle of the platform, and she watched as the entire world changed. It was as if everything had been turned upside down, or rather, her sense of up and down had been flipped, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of just how large, how _close_ the sky was. Her feet were still on the ground, gravity had not changed, but that didn’t matter as her mind flew into a panic at the sight of the impossible amount of space above her, empty and open and waiting for her to fall into its depth. There were no clouds. _There were no clouds._ She tried to find some sense of proper direction, but looking down (?up?) at the 400 meters of space running along the mountain did nothing to help. _Where was--how was her feet still attached to the platform? The thin slip of glass that was nothing, nothing in the face of--_

It was the cry of distress that did it. One of the tourists, obviously also seeing what she was, had crouched ?down? to the ground and shut his eyes, wrapping his arm around his head. There was a _direction_ now, from where she was to where he was, hanging between their two tiny points, both ?falling? at indeterminable speeds in a vast expanse of air, an insignificant line of thread with nothing to ground itself against, but it was there. 

Slowly, Ryan forced her legs to move, stepping towards where the man crouched, half sat down now, on the surface of the glass. A stubborn determination had risen out of somewhere she could not place. She knew that she had to get to him, that even though she could not tell up from down or grasp where she was, whether they still existed at all, she just had to _be there_. 

Crouching down beside him after what felt like a full hour of slow deliberate steps, Ryan wrapped her arms around his figure. She felt the warmth of his skin, the shivers that were passing through his body. She couldn’t see his face from this angle, but she could feel him. He existed, and she existed, and some semblance of proper direction returned. His presence seemed to anchor her. All at once her eyes were free to roam without that awful feeling of falling into whatever she might see.

Her eyes scanned the platform, searching for the old man. It was him. Of course. She had known. She had felt it, just like the countless times in her past.

He stood in the same place at the ?edge? of the platform, amusement simply radiating from his eyes, not bothering to hide any part of how fascinating it was to look at the two of them huddled there.

The other man, the tourist who Ryan had overlooked because he had not cried out or made much of a reaction when all hell broke loose, was walking towards the ‘edge’, to where the old man still beckoned, and she knew just what she was about to witness.

Instinct screamed out at her to grab him, run to him, do something, anything, if not for him then to spare her from having to watch as he would undoubtedly stand up on tiptoes on that ledge, stretching his body as far as it could go into the sky ?above? and jump-

But he was too far away. Too far. And she could not leave, no. The connection between herself and the tourist that had grounded her was now a restriction. It was safe here, she could not possibly stand up and move, to return to that-

In desperation, she did the one thing she was still capable of 

“Hey!” Words could be a connection. It probably wouldn’t work but...

“Hey, Sir! Mister!” She yelled, 

“Look at me! Over here! Look at me!”

To her surprise, he stopped, and turned. And although it took all the effort she could still manage, she pried her right arm away and extended it outwards into the Vast, towards where his eyes desperately searched for something to grasp. 

And in the next instant it was over. As abruptly as it had begun, the world righted itself with a lurching force. Ryan fell sideways onto the ground, and for all the ringing in her ears as her head made contact, she could hear the old man's laughter loud and clear, echoing away into the wind. 

When she came to, she was alone on the platform. The old man and the two tourists had gone (still alive, she hoped, but could do nothing to be sure). There were no traces to indicate what had happened, no marks on the glass, nothing at all, apart from a very real sense of dread as she turned her eyes to the cloudless sky above.

Of course, she understood now what had happened on that day, what the old man was. As much as she had tried to deny it, the experience proved that the urban legends drifting around the internet about alleged fear entities and the people who served them, or the people who actively sought them out for their power, these tales were...not ungrounded. And now, after months of searching, she was about to become one of them. To become that which you had heard in rumors. It excited her in a way. 

It was noon, a few minutes before the time she had set up with the antiques dealer, but Ryan was feeling more and more uneasy about standing idly in that alleyway. _Might as well_ , she thought, walking up to knock on the light green door.

She entered to Salesa’s loud ‘come in!’, and was slightly surprised to find that he was not alone. Walking up to the counter, she tried to look as casual as possible, making an effort not to stare at the dark haired man standing next to it. Were those...eye tattoos down his arm? Beholding Avatar, probably? He didn’t feel like it.

“It’s okay, he’s one of my regular customers, deals in the same stuff.” Taking note of Ryan’s unease, Selasa gestured to the man, who scoffed at this introduction. 

“I do not ‘deal’. Obtaining financial gain by selling dangerous items to people has never appealed to me.”

“Of course of course, I simply meant that you are in the same world as this young lady is looking to enter.” 

The man huffed at that, and Ryan could tell that he considered “this young lady” to be way out of her depth, ( _and he’s probably right about that_ ), but there was something else behind his eyes that had awakened at the direct mention of his being “in this world”, and she was momentarily drawn to the story that was obviously there. But of course this chance meeting with a stranger she did not know the name of presented nothing for possibly becoming acquainted, and soon Selasa drew her attention back to the thing she had come for in the first place. 

“Ryan, is it? We spoke over the phone?”

“Yes. I’m here for the tapestry.”

“Spiral.” the man muttered, glancing at her briefly before turning back to look down at the book on the counter in front of him. His expression was unreadable, but there was no tone of judgement in his voice. A simple stated fact.

Spiral, yes. It had come to her the moment she learned the full extent of the 14 Smirke classifications. None of the more distinctly physical ones held attraction for her. The Vast was appealing but quite out of the question, maybe things would be different has she not been on that platform, but oh well. 

The Spiral had felt _right_ the more she heard about it, and she knew that it was the place from which all her intuition had come and to which they would ultimately lead. It felt _neat_ , like something perfectly slotted into place in her heart, or rather, she was something that fitted perfectly into _its_ heart. Besides, she did consider herself to be a writer, if not a very good one, a dealer in emotions and symbols, and perhaps, ‘lies’? 

“Alright, you are aware of the necessary precautions?” Selasa returned from the back room, a large cardboard box in hand. They had already gone over the possible dangers on the phone and in the text messages, but she supposed he needed to make sure (not really of her safety, probably more about the “any adverse effects is not the liability of the seller” part).

“Yes, I’m aware. Thank you so much. Right, I’ll be leaving, then.”

“Not a problem, you’re very welcome if you are ever in need of anything else.”

Ryan had hoped to at least get the name of the other “regular customer”, but social anxiety pressed down on her at that moment, and urged her to end the interaction in favor of returning home to interact with the tapestry instead. 

As if he had read her mind, Salesa’s voice rang out again as her hand fell on the doorknob,

“Oh, and if you are looking for anything specifically book related, Gerard here is much more knowledgeable than myself-”

“Mikaele, you are aware _dealing_ is not what my relationship with those books is-”

“Yes, of course, I just thought you would be willing to help out a potential… avatar?”

Gerard pondered this for the space of a second, sighed, and turned to face her,

“I’ve no idea what prompted you to pursue this, but it’s your choice. If you have trouble with any Lietners, I can help you with that. Do not bother coming to me for anything else you run into.”

“Gerard Keay.” He passed over a card.

“Good luck~” Selasa’s voice sailed out, the smile in it almost tangible, as Ryan closed the door behind her, box in hand.

//

//

Brief Index of all character appearances in case anyone wishes to search for specific parts

Chapter Index  
Part 1. the door-chaotic protag stumbles into becoming an avatar through some work and a lot of luck  
Chapter 1. Enjoy Sky Blue  
Simon Fairchild, Mikeale Salesa, Gerry Kaey  
Chapter 2. A Commission  
Michael  
Chapter 3. Weaver  
Annabelle Cane

Part 2. stepping over the threshold-the protag becomes part of a group of random avatars in the city  
Chapter 4. Initiation  
Annabelle Cane, Jonathan Sims, Agnes Montague, Sasha James, Mike Crew, Jane Prentiss, (previous characters will later be referred to as 'the team'), the oc’s actress friend Christine Wachowska  
Chapter 5  
Mike Crew, Christine  
Chapter 6. Missions and Chill  
Annabelle Cane, Jonathan Sims, Agnes Montague, Mike Crew, Jane Prentiss, Oliver Banks, some Cats (capitalized because Cats Are Important)  
Chapter 7. “One of Us”  
Christine, Jane, the other members of the team (briefly), Michael  
Chapter 8. Perspective  
Anges, Mike, Annabelle

Part 3. the view from beyond-the protag dispels a few threats in various extreme ways  
Chapter 9. Fire  
The team, Brandon Douglas (an oc Desolation avatar bcs I didn’t want to use anyone from the canon for this role), Mustermann (briefly mentioned)  
Chapter 10. Water  
Oliver, Brandon  
Chapter 11  
The team ('s feeding habits)  
Chapter 12. Up High  
The team, Simon, Gerry, Michael, a bunch of other people whose names weren’t mentioned but who are present (it’s a party after all)  
Chapter 13. Safety Precautions  
Simon, Christine  
Chapter 14. Exhibitionist and Voyeur  
Jon, Sasha, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood (briefly)

Part 4. ???-this part and its appearances will not be summarized because doing so would give away the plot, I might decide to update it later on  
Chapter 15. The Little Thief  
Chapter 16. Identity  
Chapter 17. The Narrator  
Chapter 18. The Lynch Mob  
Chapter 19. The Game Continues  
Chapter 20. The Lynch Mob 2  
Chapter 21. In the Silence After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work for tma (and first fanfic of anything that I have a planned storyline for). I hope it was alright for a first work.  
> As the story progresses I do hope the oc will turn out to be the overdramatic/sensitive/hedonistic theatre kid inside of us all that I thought would be a super fun perspective to explore the MAG world with. And yes, I also just wanted to write cool superpowers that are related to sensitivity/writing.  
> Huge thanks to my friends Katherine Hu and Catherine Dai for betaing this fic.  
> Thank you for reading! And it would be an absolute joy if you decide to leave a comment ;) Have a nice weekend and good luck to everyone for the final stretch of the podcast.


	2. A Commission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the protag is yeeted into a corridor that commissions a piece of writing from her. Michael’s pronouns interchange between he and it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: claustrophobia and other unsettling sensations in relation to the Distortion's corridors.

It was a strange thing (obviously). A nice addition to her wall when seen from afar but very headache-inducing when studied in detail. The colors swam together in a way that held her intrigued, but the moment she looked away she could not actually recall what the pattern on the tapestry was. It was, in every sense, exactly what Ryan wanted. 

She had not anticipated the dreams to be so vivid, but fortunately they seemed to mirror her waking interaction with the object, and did not get any more intimate (at least, the ones that she could remember didn’t). 

She had also not expected to draw as much attention as her attempts to engage the thing apparently did. 

Had she been on her normal level of attentiveness when first returning from Selasa’s antique store, she might have known what was coming and been more careful in her actions. But it was easy enough to miss the distortion of a face in the nearby window when her mind was preoccupied with the object in her hand, and the story that had sailed behind the eyes of that...book guy. Gerard Kaey, his name was? It didn’t help that he was also quite attractive.

By the time she noticed her guest? visitor? stalker? properly, he had already been watching her go about her ‘engagement’ for a while.

The encounter itself must have been pretty hard to stage. Unless absolutely necessary, Ryan preferred to stay indoors, and since her job did not require her to leave the flat (being a freelance writer did have its perks), the event of finding her outside and alone was rare (the unfortunate need for networking, meeting with friends, or shopping for necessities being the only occasions when she would leave). 

She had been on her way home with the week’s supply of groceries when she saw him, stood near an ice cream van by the side of the road. He was tall, with wavy blonde hair and hands that made her own fingers tingle as she looked over to them. 

Ryan had heard about this one. 

She had read nothing official, digging up knowledge without access to any proper records as she was, but word had its way of getting around. The Distortion was here, and she knew with that awful sinking feeling that clued her in on everything related to the entities, that he was here specifically because of the tapestry. 

For the moment, it did not appear like he (it?) had noticed her at all. It had a cone in hand, and was watching the action around the ice cream truck, taking in the woman that tended its counter and the coming and going of the customers. Nobody other than herself seemed to be aware of its presence. It stood still. Deathly still. A stillness that suggested to her the sudden, violent kinds of movement that were hidden beneath its surface, and Ryan suppressed a shudder at the thought of that unseen force. 

She briefly entertained the notion of turning away and taking a different route home, but she knew that deliberately avoiding it would only attract more of its attention. God forbid it should see this desire to avoid interaction as a declaration or invitation of some kind. Besides, she knew that there was no longer any way to avoid the encounter, not even if she destroyed the tapestry as soon as she got home. It was too late for that. She supposed the only thing to do was wait, and go along with whatever it had planned. 

Thankfully, nothing much happened when Ryan passed by him. Nothing directly physical, at least. Though it had its back to her, she could _feel_ its smile. The tingling in her fingers now ran along the inside of her skull as if the curve of that smile was running its length against the soft folds of her brain. 

Pinching the palm of her hand in an attempt to block out the sensation, she forced herself to continue home at a more or less normal pace. She could sense the caress of its gaze on her back now, clear and sharp, and she willed herself not to give it the satisfaction of forcing her to turn and check to see if it was following. 

The next afternoon, the inevitable happened. 

“Bit harder to ignore when I’m right in your corridor, isn’t it.”

She had returned from a meeting with her publisher to see it standing a few steps away from the front door of her apartment, grinning cheerfully. 

Ryan took a deep breath. 

“Michael.”

“My my, hasn’t someone been doing their homework.” 

If one knew where to look (or was simply guided by some inexplicable and often frustrating form of intuition), stories about the Distortion were not at all difficult to find. It wasn’t exactly very...subtle, about itself or what it did. In fact, there were probably tons more stories than she had found, but after the first five, none of which provided a clear solution to its games, or were provided by people who ultimately survived the encounter, she felt it useless to search any further. 

“You ignored me last time. That rather hurt my feelings.” 

“And you stalked me.”

“A strange accusation coming from a little thief such as yourself. As a resident of the house you are currently stealing from, it would only seem right for me to check in on your...progress.”

“Wh-what? I, um, the tapestry? I bought that, I didn’t steal it. Is it yours?”

Its laughter echoed through the corridor, and Ryan was immediately prepared to apologize for whatever accusations it had, true or not, if that meant it would leave her alone.

“Are you trying to play dumb with me? (it seemed genuinely entertained by this notion) We both know the tapestry is not what I am talking about.”

She was silent, her head spinning from confusion and the remnants of that laugh. Smile widening, it leaned down and spoke softly, as if explaining a particularly cruel fact of reality to a child, 

“You seek the powers of the Spiral.”

She loved and hated that the reply which jumped to mind ran along the lines of ‘Oh, and that-those things are copyright restricted, by you, are they?’

“You seek its aesthetics. But you do not wish to give back. If you take objects from the house but do not wish to become one of its residents, what does that make you but a thief?”

“I haven’t taken anything from it.” Ryan replied, meeting its gaze as she spoke the one thing she was certain of,

“I don't even know how to understand whatever the tapestry is doing, let alone actually ‘take its aesthetics'.”

The smile was gone, but amusement now shone in its eyes where there had only been unreadable spirals of color, in a way that made it appear less alien and somehow more chilling. 

“So you are not yet aware…very well, ’planning to take’, then, but that changes nothing about your identity. You are not willing to give anything in return, successful or not.”

She had to admit it was right about that part. 

“I...I don’t...What do you want.”

“I would have thought that was clear by now.” It smiled.

“Payment.”

Directly opposite to the door of her apartment, where there was once nothing but a wall that separated the inside of the building from the outside, there was now a bright yellow door. 

The color seemed to physically press into her eyes.

“...can you take cash instead?” to her surprise he seemed to appreciate the joke, though she regretted it at once when the laughter sounded again.

“I...what do I pay with?” Her sanity? Her life? Some more fucked up thing she could not even imagine?

“Depends on how much you’re willing to give, and how much I want to take. But mostly how much I want to take.” 

Of course. That, she found very understandable. With sanity there is no line, no power to bargain or semblance of control. Either the madness claimed you, or it did not. 

Obviously, this understanding did not make her any less afraid. 

“Go on now.” It stood, watching, its hands crossed over each other (or were they merging with each other? Shifting into each other?) in a pose she would have found rather cute under any other circumstances, it made her want to scream at the show of politeness that was being put on. 

She wished she could at least had a final chance to prepare, or received some kind of prior warning. But...this was not entirely unexpected, and Ryan knew what she must do. It was not only because she didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter, it was because...she did want the power, the aesthetics, and if there was any chance that it required her to pay...in some way, she knew that she needed, _wanted_ , to go through with it. Besides, a part of her (that was not feeling terrified) was curious. The corridor she was about to get trapped in, probably until she died, was a part of the entity that she had willingly set out to engage. If exploring it was to be the last thing she ever did, well, there are far worse fates out there.

Taking a step up she grasped the handle and turned, fearing that she would be tempted to make a run for it if she hesitated any further.

“Good luck.” Its laughter rang out, shifting in cadence and frequency as the door shut behind her with a click.

The corridor was every bit as bad as she had heard from those stories. 

“Right right.”

Taking a step forward so her back was no longer pressed up against the door (a mirror now, if the descriptions she’d read were correct), she closed her eyes, reaching out. But as all that came to her mind was a mess of tangled static, she knew that her intuition held no power here. Maybe because that particular ‘muscle’ was already too closely aligned with this place. 

Upon further inspection, she found with surprise and unease that she could remember the pattern on the tapestry now, and when she reached to it, the shapes seemed to appear in her mind like a filter, through which the atmosphere of the corridor seemed more....interpretable, like that feeling when you add a few lines to a geometry problem and suddenly the entire shape could be easily understood. But this provided no further clues for navigating the place, if anything, it only felt like she was now closer to becoming a part of its madness. 

In spite of all this, she tried to navigate, to think. _Pay...pay how?_

The crypticness was on brand, at least.

As the colors burrowed their way behind her eyelids, and her sense of time and direction slowly wore away, it occurred to her that unless something else happened, she would die exactly like any other victim it had taken, just, perhaps a bit slower than someone who had not engaged with the tapestry would. But nothing she did seemed to make any change to the situation. She tried to call out to Michael, asking to speak with it. There was no reply (not even laughter, just silence), in a way that almost felt like disappointment. Like it had expected something more from her. She had long ago given up trying to find a pattern in the colors or mirrors or paintings or the vague hum of static or the temperature?? (perhaps that last one could not be ‘patterned’, but she wasn’t really sure anymore). She tried to break mirrors, tried to pry the paintings off the wall to see if there was anything behind them. Nothing happened.

Well, something happened, but it wasn’t very useful. There was a mirror along her path that had...splintered? She hadn’t touched that one. Among the shattered fragments neatly slotted back into place to form the semblance of a full mirror, she saw that a piece roughly the size of her own hand had blood dripping down its edges. It was quite an unsettling sight but it was the only color she had seen in a while that didn’t hurt her eyes.

Having run out of absolutely everything else, Ryan slumped against the nearest wall, and looked through the pages she still carried in her bag, the most recent draft she had taken to the editors. Turning to face the mirror closest to her, papers in hand, she tried calling out one last time, 

“Michael? I know how I can pay you.”

She had intended it as half a joke, and stifled a gasp as he responded by appearing behind her. 

“I’m listening.” It put a hand on her shoulder, fingertips brushing her neck.

“I want to….I want to write a story for you. Whatever subject you want.” She addressed its reflection.

“How would that count towards payment?”

“I...I um, it’s the most a writer can offer, really. ”

“That doesn’t mean it’s what I would want.”

“Well...um, writers...through the process of writing they kind of remake themselves. A narrative fully written for the wishes of another...being, is a paradox, but it will allow me to remake myself, into myself, as I become part of...the house, and as the house becomes part of me.” she was pretty much running on whatever came to mind now, but as long as the points sounded more or less right, she hoped that it would work in some weird illogical way in here. 

“Why don’t you tell the story to me now?”

“I...need to leave in order to do it. I can’t in here, I can’t think properly. Um, like...a praise of madness can only exist if it comes from the perspective of sanity. Writing, can be seen as a door, that separates one from the other, and leads one into the other. But if I am to be a door, bringing the aesthetics of the Spiral into the world of the sane, then I would need to be in the world of reality.”

There was silence as the Distortion tilted its head (well, did something with it that can’t really be described). It seemed to be listening, at the very least, which was good??? Taking a deep breath, Ryan pushed right on with the final step. 

“You could let me out, and let me do this, write this for you, and become, an avatar? Something else? I don’t know. Or you could kill me right now. I would argue that the former holds more promise for bringing about more of the Spiral's aesthetics in the world, but I know that decisions for you...and perhaps for me too... shouldn’t at all have to be based on which choice is the _better_ one. That would be boring. So.”

Her heart was making loud noises in her ears, but thankfully, she did not have to wait long for the reply. Its grip tightened on her shoulder, and she barely had time to yell as it shoved her forwards into the mirror, at a velocity that did not make any sense for the tiny amount of space between them. When the ceiling had stopped spinning, she realized that she was back in her flat, lying face up on the carpet.

Still not entirely sure whether the entire interaction had been one huge hallucination, or how her random suggestion had actually worked, she opened the notes on her phone without sitting up from the floor. The details of what she had said a few seconds ago were already fading, warped like memories of a dream in the early morning. She typed down whatever she could recall. 

_A Commision for Michael. Due...a given time into the future?? Probably. Topic: will need to think about that. Something about madness? A Door?_

Her experience in the corridor had given her one clear piece of insight, however.

The tapestry was not enough. By itself, the pure flood of aesthetics was powerful, but she could not utilize it, or even make much sense of it. In order to do that, to put madness down into words, she needed to pull it together with something. To connect it and then channel it. She needed something that could weave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about Michael- he’s so much fun  
> Writing about Michael- holy hell he is absolutely terrifying
> 
> I am basically a Michael simp, but I also love Helen a lot. I imagined her as playing more of a nightmare hotel manager role in this AU, while Michael's the one who goes around annoying everyone.  
> My update schedule is pretty irregular, but the chapters probably won't be posted very far apart.


	3. Weaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the protag heeds an invitation. Webs and stories and all that good stuff. Also where I assume everyone has read/listened to MAG172-Strung Out. Featuring some good old fashioned mind control and vandalism of Lietners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mind control, manipulation. Taking comfort in loss of agency.

When she first noticed her, Annabelle had found it rather cute, the way the writer went about seeking out the Web, but when she looked again, it was a bit off putting that this person had not attempted to hide their tracks even a little bit. 

Of course, it could be genuine ignorance. From how she had contacted Gerard Keay and blatantly asked for information regarding Lietners related to the mother of puppets (and given him her  _ real  _ name too), it seemed like she had no idea of who could possibly be watching. It could also be the exact opposite. The writer knew about who was watching, and she didn’t care, either out of confidence in her own power (she showed no sign of it but these kinds of people usually don’t), or acceptance of her own powerlessness (which was a kind of power in its own right). As always, Annabelle preferred to be sure about these things.

Upon closer inspection, she discovered traces on her that suggested some previous encounter with the Distortion that she had apparently survived (for now), and Annabelle knew it was time she invited the writer over for a chat. 

It would have been very aesthetically fitting for her little friends to carry out the job, but the weaver wanted to make sure the invitation could not be misunderstood in any way. She sent a text instead. (It’s surprisingly easy to find the phone numbers of people who tend to casually drop their names around.) 

“You came.” 

It was two days later when her visitor arrived on time to heed the invitation. She opened the door, smiling and glancing briefly over their appearance. Ryan Hu was wearing the same thing she had worn to meet Gerard (a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, more for comfort than style) and it amused Annabelle to find that she felt just the tiniest bit offended by this. Apart from a side bag that said “I Passed the Turing Test” in blue letters, the writer carried nothing else, and there were no traces of any protection on her. 

Annabelle decided not to waste any time in getting to the matter at hand. 

“Come inside.”

As she felt the pull of the strings, Ryan knew what she had known from the start, that it was probably a bad idea to heed the invitation, and that she probably didn’t have a much better choice of things. 

To not go would mean trouble later on, and there was no guarantee she would be able to handle that any better than right now. Obviously, it would be more rational to wait until she had some form of protection, or to find out more about this Annabelle Cane than she already had, but rationality did not hold for her the finality so often required to cement a decision. In the end, what did it was that she preferred to get things over with instead of having them hang over her head. 

Instinctively, she wanted to turn and run, and as a panicked realization sank in that she was no longer able to do either, so did a faint feeling of resigned relief, which was quite alarming in itself.  _ God _ ,  _ who would have thought I have so much anxiety about taking responsibility that literally being mind controlled gives me comfort.  _

The interior of the house was surprisingly clean, well decorated and devoid of any visible spider webs. A facade perhaps. 

It’s not really all that bad, Ryan thought, attempting to calm herself down as she followed Annabelle to the sofa in her living room.  _ At least she’s not directly pulling at my thoughts, though that might be because...it’s more...delightful, to have me be fully conscious of what’s happening.  _

It was the sensation of attempting to speak, and finding out she couldn’t, which finally did it. 

Annabelle watched in slight amusement as her guest began to fight the compulsion in earnest. It was pretty obvious that she was no longer entirely human. She had been aware of the strings from the moment they landed on her skin, and now tugged against them with a motion (non physical, of course) that had a level of clarity to it. It was willful, in every sense of the word. She knew what she was fighting, and why, and how. 

Of course, none of this meant that the attempt would be any more successful than those of her human victims. 

The writer stood dead still in the middle of the room, her hands grasping onto the strap of the bag. There were tears in her eyes from what was obviously a very painful effort, the kind of sharp pain that inevitably came with clarity. It was obvious that she was looking for an anchor of some sort, and it might have worked for anything else, but all anchors are part of the Web.

She could just leave her like this until her energy ran out, and she was sure a lot many people she knew would have done so, but Annabelle had no interest in pain as an end in itself.  _ Lucky you _ . She thought, releasing the hold on the writer’s tongue.

“Hey, hey.” She reached out a hand in a gesture of peace and Ryan pulled back, (tried to). 

“There’s no need for that, I just want to talk.”

“T-talk? With someone who can’t say anything? That’s a strange practice.” She was gasping slightly, but had not relented her end of the fight. 

“Well, you can speak now.”

Ironically, her guest fell silent at that, staring at her with a kind of exasperation, and Annabelle decided that it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more honest about the situation.

“Normally, I would prefer if a potential avatar of the Spiral only spoke when absolutely necessary, since I’ve no idea what you can do with that pretty mouth of yours. But apparently, you don’t either. Not yet.”

“So, coming?” Annabelle gestured to the place next to her on the sofa

“......”

“If you’d rather have it like that.”

There was no physical movement to indicate but Ryan almost let out a scream as she felt the strings reach their way directly towards her mind, gripping themselves around the emotional force that fueled her resistance.

“No!! No...I’ll...there’s no need.” 

Giving in was almost heavenly, as the pain faded away, and a false yet still effective relief flooded Ryan’s chest. She walked over to sit down on the sofa next to Annabelle. 

“Would you like some tissue?”

“No. It’s fine.” 

It was the first time Ryan had the chance to get a proper look at her. The descriptions had been accurate, down to the patch of spider webs she had over the right side of her head, and as the weaver leaned over to reach for the bag, she wondered, rather deliriously, whether it was some kind of cosmic joke that she felt attracted to both of the eldritch entities who had so far caused her to fear for her life. 

“Why do you seek the Web?” Annabelle asked, looking down at the bag in her hand, “You know, most people who find their way here, don’t do it on purpose.”

“Does that make you unhappy, that I sought it out on purpose?” 

“Answer the question, dear.”

“I, I was looking for a way to balance out what powers I’d already gotten from the Spiral. The, um, the Distortion asked for a piece of writing from me, and I thought I might need some help with that, from the entity that has a more symbolic connection to...word based manipulation, and um, stories.”

“Hmm.” Annabelle made no clear response, but judging from her expression, she seemed slightly surprised that the only thing in the bag was the Leitner. 

Ryan had indeed thought about going empty handed or with whatever protection she could get at the moment, but for some reason it had felt right to take the book. Strange, considering that an object of the Web was only likely to assist an avatar of the same, but certainly not the strangest thing her intuition had pushed her to do.

Carefully, Annabelle eased the book out of the bag. The cover, a painting of an empty stage, was reminiscent of those children’s books with watercolor pictures. 

_ The Tragedy of Francis, now with illustration.  _

The insides were covered in words, written in pen in an increasingly messy script, running crosshatched across the original printed text and its matching illustrations.

“You wrote, over it.”

“Yes. I was...trying to engage with it.”

Annabelle turned the book on its side and glanced over the words, carefully flipping through the entire thing. The newly written “engagement” had not attempted to alter the ending of Francis’ story (a wise choice), and indeed had changed nothing at all, but simply told the story again from Francis’ first person perspective. It detailed their struggles as matching with the original plot; their pain, their fears, and sometimes their random thoughts, in a way that was a touch more intimate and realistic than the abstraction of the picture book’s narration. 

The new narrative was written entirely in first person, all except the very last sentence. Two empty spaces down from the previous paragraph, right across an illustration of the strings that forced Francis’ hand, the pen said,

“Francis is beautiful.” Annabelle read aloud.

“Yes.” Ryan answered, raising her head to fully meet Annabelle’s eyes for the first time since she had stepped inside the house, and it was as if a light had come on somewhere deep behind the writer’s pupils at the sound of her own words. 

For a moment her mind cleared. She recalled that night when she had opened herself to the book and furiously scribbled over its pages so that the story would not leave behind the bitter yet empty taste of despair or resignation and of course, that paralyzing fear, but instead bring tears to her eyes and an ache to her heart so deep as to befit those four words on its cover, and so vivid as to wake her up from the mist of cobwebs the book’s original narration had latched into her mind. It had allowed her to see the strings, to behold the aesthetics of the Mother of Puppets, as she did now in the space between Annabelle and herself.

“Beautiful? You would say so?”

“I didn’t change the title. Their situation is still very much unenviable. But yes, I would say so.”

“Bold.”

“Not really. Quite cowardly actually. But it’s, just, um, just...in order to...carry on.”

In the silence that followed Ryan could hear her own heart thudding away. 

Then Annabelle laughed, closing the book and stashing it back into the “I Passed the Turing Test” bag, before handing it back to her, and Ryan found with surprise that she could move of her own will again.

“You’ve finished the commission, then, I presume?”

“Yep. Handed it back through the door.”

“Did Michael like it?”

“I honestly don’t know. He hasn’t responded since. I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

“So, what’s changed? Now that you are, apparently, an agent of both the Spiral and the Web?”

The rest of the conversation was surprisingly casual. Maybe it was the relief at the sudden change in the weaver’s attitude, but Ryan was more than willing to jump into a normal conversation.

On her part, it intrigued Annabelle that the writer seemed to be telling the truth because she wanted to, and was responding quite eagerly to most of her questions. Almost as if she was enjoying the attention.

Towards the end of the visit, the two were talking like old acquaintances.

“Well, it was great to talk to you.” The weaver saw her out the door with a warm smile. Already, it felt as if nothing absolutely terrifying had happened in that doorway just an hour ago. Rationally, Ryan knew she ought to feel unsettled by this, but there was something in that smile that pushed the feeling away as soon as it surfaced. 

“If you’re ever looking to meet more of us, I have a couple friends that I’d be happy to introduce you to. But in the meantime, do take care. The city isn’t exactly easy to navigate for newcomers.” 

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind. Goodbye.”

From the living room window, Annabelle watched her leave. 

The writer had been a curious thing. As of the moment, she was not yet a full avatar, but that decision would come in time. Soon, she hoped. It certainly would not hurt to have one more member for her group. 

She waited until her figure disappeared down the street before leaving to brew herself a cup of tea.

As she was reaching into the cupboard, the words that had been added to the book abruptly returned to her mind. She had not remained on any page for long enough to take in a coherent narrative, but had glimpsed a phrase here and there. As the words that had been weaved into the narrative reemerged from her short term memory, fragmented yet sharp, Annabelle had the faintest feeling that a wound somewhere behind her heart had begun to throb again, a place that for all those years she had thought was long forgotten. She was rather glad that she had not insisted on keeping the Lietner (was it even a Lietner anymore?), and more certain than ever that she would need to keep a closer eye on this one.

Ryan returned home, feeling for the most part, very very relieved. Somewhere behind that a part of her felt just a tiny bit proud, and strangely it was because Annabelle had not found her story very terrible. Well, it wasn’t like she complimented it, but at least she hadn’t said anything else. As for the weaver’s final words, Ryan did want to get a sense of the avatar scene by herself before pushing for further engagement, but she had to admit that the idea of a group of friends was...very appealing.

The following days, her sleep was filled with nightmares of being trapped in giant webs and bright, endless corridors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annabelle is delightfully spooky, as always. The weaver’s offer of friendship concludes the first part of the series. It was really fun for me to explore how Ryan had found her way to becoming an avatar, and next up, our protag is finally going to meet the team, yay!!


End file.
